


no contact

by eichart



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, and that post of schiefle and meyers jumping, of auston and willy with auston in the non-contact jersey, on each other, this is based off that pic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 17:59:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14857526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eichart/pseuds/eichart
Summary: Auston comes back from his injury and Willy gets excited.





	no contact

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during Auston's second injury in the 17-18 season and his subsequent return.

It’s easy for a person to amount to nothing; to fleet in and out of existence and leave so quietly as if they weren’t ever there at all. Willy’s never been good at treading quietly through life; he leaves his fingerprints on everyone, loves to wipe his personality onto everything. But it’s a two-way street. What’s given is replaced and missing becomes an easy thing to do when you fall in love too easy.

Sometimes Willy wonders if it’s really such a good idea to let himself get so attached; he’s never been good at being lonely.

(Never been  _ good _ at holding himself back).

Missing Auston’s line is easy even though he desperately wishes it wasn’t. Missing is  _ easy _ ; consistency is not, at least not for him. It’s simple to want, but not so simple to get, sometimes even despite hours and hours of hard work, burning quads and blisters bleeding on his fingers.

It’s easy to step out onto the ice and feel how hollow it is. It’s  _ easy _ to look for something that isn’t there; for that shared knowing look, the energy sparking between them and Zach and knowing that  _ this _ is going to be the shift.

But Willy knows better than anyone that things aren’t just given to you. You have to work hard, earn your place and respect back if you lose it –and if he has to crawl up from the bottom on borrowed luck again, he fucking  _ will _ .

It’s magical, finally being back at Auston’s side –feeling that force behind you, at your side, the pressure on your stick when he dishes the puck to you just right, the confidence that when you pass he’ll score. Auston is a special player; no one’s ever denied that, not really.

Willy’s just fallen back into the comfort of Auston’s solidarity when the collision happens, causing his heart to leap in his throat and hands tighten on his stick. Just like that, Auston’s taken from the team –from  _ him _ —once again. He tries not to despair; they are a  _ team _ after all, but he can’t help but feel all too hard the disappointed exhale that whole of Toronto breathes out in tandem.

It’s a hard couple weeks without Auston, no easier than the ones he missed prior; worse by many accounts, maybe, because it feels like there is so much more on the line now with playoffs just close enough on the horizon to matter, but more than far enough away to slip away.

It’s not even just in game that it’s felt –it’s all the little things he does, the little plays, the aura of calm collectiveness he manages to impress into them all. But there’s the other things as well: the quietness of the locker room, the tightness of Mitch’s laugh, the way Babs seems to snap a bit more sharply at them all. Willy feels every beat of silence cut sharply into him, pulling words and laughter from his mouth in an attempt to fill them.

It feels all rushed and scrambly without Auston on the ice, in the locker room, like everyone’s been sprinting and is still trying to catch their breath –only no one ever does. It probably doesn’t help that they’re almost immediately shipped off on one of the season’s longest roadies.

They don’t deliver, slipping further and further downhill. A shootout win. An overtime loss. A stadium series loss. An embarrassing division rival loss. Loss and loss and  _ loss.  _ It’s a rough trip to say the least; he doesn’t really want to get into the details.

Willy sleeps on Kappy’s shoulder on the two hour jaunt from Buffalo, resisting the urge to call Alex and just tries to forget. When he wakes up, Babs’ scowl seems even more permanently ingrained into his face than usual. It also probably doesn’t help that they have to sit in traffic at the border with the rest of Leafs’ Nation and wallow in their own pity.

…

Willy wakes up around 4 am, Kappy’s snores drifting softly through their apartment. Some nights it would bother him, but Willy’s own thoughts of ‘ _ not good enough’ _ seem to drown them out just fine on their own. They also seem to do a pretty bang up job of not letting him go back to sleep.

He scrolls through his phone as a distraction, avoiding twitter and its too easy judgemental tone, idly liking photos on his Instagram feed and texting Alex who doesn’t respond because he’s probably dead asleep. Auston shows up on Mitch’s snap story looking both parts comfortable and amused as he wards off something Mitch is doing. Despite himself, Willy can’t help but smile.

_ Keep harassing him. Make me proud, Mitchy _ . Willy types out and sends before he even realizes when he’s doing. Mitch doesn’t respond, and Willy snaps a picture of himself, puts a line of hearts below his face, and deletes it before he has a chance to send it off to Auston.

He falls asleep, content, not too long after that.

…

“How’s he doing?” Willy asks Mitch the next day at practice.

Mitch shrugs, “Seemed a bit lonely –y’should’ve visited him too. He wouldn’t have minded.”

“I was tired and Kappy wanted to go home,” he protests weakly, as Mitch fixes him with an almost uncharacteristic glower.

“You responded to my story at 4:34 am,” states Mitch, all matter-of-fact. Willy sputters some weak response to the visual of Mitch rolling his eyes. “ _ Whatever,  _ Nylander.”

He ignores him again, instead bending down to finish tying his skates.

…

They’re all here because they’re following their dreams. being in the NHL, playing for an original six team: that is a dream not many of the millions that dream it get to fulfil and Willy tries most days to be appreciative of what he has. But some days? It’s tough. Dreams are never easy, even when you’re living them.

Right now it’s a lengthy lecture from Babs, notably better than the bag skate some in the group chat had been ominously predicting. Still, there’s something to be said about kneeling on the ice for far too long getting stiffer and sleepier with every passing second.

Willy makes it through Babs’ lecture if only just, quick to skate away from the group in an attempt to get blood pumping and energy along with it when they get called to break.

He’s testing the edges of his blades around one of the nets when there’s movement on the bench at the corner of his eye and he turns more out of idle curiosity than any strong desires. He sees red for a moment and then forgets about the red as his heart jumps a beat because it’s  _ Auston _ .

Auston’s just barely stepped onto the ice when an excited  _ whoop _ leaves Willy’s mouth as he skates over, arms thrown around Auston’s shoulders before he can help it. It’s instinctive, like the way he jumps up into Auston’s arms after they score, tape to tape and chemistry crackling between them. “You’re back!” He can feel how wide his smile is on his face and doesn’t particularly care.

“I’m back,” says Auston, eyes crinkling with fond amusement.

Willy laughs, a delighted sound that rings clear around Plexiglas boards, then muffled as he buries his face into the familiar comfort of Auston’s shoulder. For a second, it’s great, Auston’s arms heavy and firm around his waist, a sense of grounding filling him as only  _ Auston  _ seems to bring to this team (though he probably learned that from Freddie at some point).

“ _ Nylander. _ ” The voice snaps across the rink, sharp and demanding.

Willy jerks back at the sound, looking over to where Babs is looking at him down the length of his hook-like nose, scowl easily pinching at his mouth. “---yeah?” He already feels like he knows where this is going but even as cheeks feel hot he can’t quite bring himself to let go of Auston’s sleeve. Not when he just got him back.

“What color is Matthews’ jersey?”

“Red.”  _ duh. _

“And do we have any red in our jersey?”

“No.”

“So-- what does this mean?”

“----no-contact.”

“So do it.”

“Right,” he says, more to himself than anyone. Willy does as he’s told and lets go, the heat of his blush still high on his cheeks.

“Don’t worry about it,” says Auston with a soft grin, tapping his shins lightly with his stick as he skates away to converse with Freddie, and Willy can’t help but turn a glimmer of a smile in response.

“Keep your hands off,” snickers Kappy when Willy does a very long skate of shame over, cheeks still burning. “Thought I was going to be treated with a whistle-worthy makeout session.” Willy weakly shoves him in response. “---put away the heart eyes too,” Kappy adds, low and quiet in his ear so that only Willy can hear him. “Those have got a force strong enough to count as contact.”

“Fuck off, Kappy.” Willy does not have time for this, gives another harder push at his so-called friend before he skates away.

“You’re only mad because you know I’m right,” yells Kappy after him.

Willy hates him but only because he has a point. He really has no friends on this damn team.

…

The atmosphere is much chipper than normal, like maybe Auston brought the Arizona sun back with him to cut through the gloom on the ice and off. Willy relishes the hardness of the drills, both parts thankful for Auston’s presence beside him and the hard work to give a decent cover for the blush that lingers on his cheeks.

It’s almost like normal again: Mitch flitting around like an annoying gnat, spraying water and snowing legs; Auston and Freddie pulling everyone in like twin sources of gravity; Kappy seeming to permanently smirk at Willy from across the ice, the bench.

Something loosens inside Willy, fondness blooming in his chest.

“I’m glad you’re back,” he says to Auston between drills, as if it’s not obvious. “It wasn’t the same without you.”

“I know --glad to be back,” Auston replies with a grin, gaze surveying the ice as if to take it all in before fixing dark eyes on Willy. “ _ Really _ glad,” he adds with a significant look, and Willy suppresses a shiver, feeling like those eyes are only looking at him.

...

“Lunch?” asks Auston later in the dressing room after practice. Willy would have said yes with no hesitation even if it weren’t for the glint in Auston’s eye. He’s always been  _ fond  _ of sunshine.

Next to him, Kappy kicks at his shin.

…

They head back to Auston’s apartment not long after they finish some truly decadent burgers at this hole in the wall joint, Willy casually bumping shoulders with Auston as they amble down the sidewalk.

He pushes past Auston after he unlocks his door, shoes barely slide off before he makes for a faceplant on Auston’s couch. “Hope you didn’t suffer too much on this couch watching us miserably lose,” he tells the cushion.

Auston’s laughter is a pleasant sound, puts a smile on Willy’s face and a certain warmth through his veins. The moment passes soon enough when Auston drops an ice-cold bottle of water onto his neck.

“Move your ass,” demands Auston, shoving at Willy’s prone legs.

“That’s not my ass.”

“ _ Move _ .”

“Fortnite or Chel?”

Willy picks Chel over Fortnite and they lounge in opposite corners of the couch, Willy slowly remembering that Auston was named Chel God of the team or whatever only a few weeks ago.

“Ugh--” Willy toss his controller onto the footstool before him after this fourth consecutive loss, face buried in hands in mocking despair. “This is why I always play Alex ---you’re too damn good.”

“Hey,” says Auston quietly. There’s a note of hesitation there that makes Willy look over, a note of softness in Auston’s eyes that makes Willy feel stripped. “C’mere.”

“No contact,” reminds Willy dutifully, words barely above a whisper, hoarse as he stares.

Auston rolls his eyes, “We’re not at the rink anymore and I’m not even wearing red, Will. C’mon.” Willy must hesitate too long because Auston reaches for his hand, tugs Willy toward him. “ _ C’mere. _ ”

Willy goes far too easy, almost mesmerized as Auston pulls him into the middle of the couch, hands on his wrist, up his arm and gentle at the back of his head. He can see this like he sees the ice, the way he knows where Auston is, when pass is going to be perfect; how he knows when he passes to Auston, he’s going to score.

Auston cuts off his sharp intake of breath, leaning forward to capture Willy’s lips, hand at the back of his head, fingers winding through hair and carefully guiding him forward. Willy complies, inching forward with a hand between Auston’s knees, his own fingers trailing over tattooed collarbones with featherlight gentleness.

Auston’s tongue licks at his, a quiet and firm question. Willy complies with a muffled whimper, one hand creeping under the hem of Auston’s shirt, the other thumbing collarbones one last time before settling on the curve of a shoulder. His heart thunders loud in his ears, skin electrifying with every touch, every gasped breath.

God, there are times when he thinks he might go anywhere Auston asks him to.

Willy’s not proud of the whine he lets out when Auston pulls away, his own body instinctively shifting, trying to follow. “Hey, no contact,” chides Auston, words murmured close enough Willy can feel them against his lips, can hear the note of mocking amusement in them.

Eyes blink open, a hard shove aimed Auston’s chest. “ _ Shut up. _ ”

Auston grins back at him, lips dusty pink and quirked in a challenge, “Make me.”

Willy laughs in response, shoving Auston back into the couch cushions and clambering to settle across strong legs and against his chest. “Gladly.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! I hope you enjoyed. Sorry, it's incredibly late with respect to the timeline, but really, is any fic TRULY late? I think not. As always, find me [here](http://thenylanderbros.tumblr.com) and leave a kudo and comment if you enjoyed!!


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